Lagos refused to sleep. Not tonight. Not after Dre's words found their way onto rooftops and radios and broken speakers in mechanics' sheds. They came through cassette recorders and transistor radios in the back rooms of clubs. They came through the hum of silence, cutting across the tension like a blade through smoke. People stood still and listened. Some wept. Some clenched their fists. But no one stayed unmoved.
Dre sat on the edge of the rooftop where he had spoken into the night. His hands trembled slightly. Not from fear but from the magnitude of what had just happened. He felt something shifting in the air. Something old and buried finally rising from the dust.
Kemi leaned against the rusted ladder, sweat and grime on her face. Her lips parted as if to speak but she said nothing. She only looked at him and nodded. The unspoken bond between them had grown beyond words now. Malik sat nearby with a wrench in one hand, blood crusting his knuckles. He had punched through a rusted fuse box earlier to keep the generator running. It felt worth it.
In the silence that followed the broadcast, the city exhaled. Then it exploded into action.
By morning, neighborhoods that had once been quiet erupted with defiance. People flooded into streets in Yaba, Surulere, Mushin. They painted walls. They held up signs. They formed human shields around community centers. Police sirens blared but the people stood their ground.
Obayemi watched from a secure chamber under his estate. His eyes twitched. His advisors argued in hushed voices. One of them approached him and whispered that international media had picked up the story. CNN had aired part of the broadcast. BBC followed. The African Union had sent a request for investigation into civil rights violations. Obayemi slammed his fist into the table.
He turned to the remaining officers.
Why is he still breathing
The officer replied
Because the people are breathing with him
Obayemi snarled
Then suffocate them
He picked up the phone and called for full lockdown. No movement after dusk. Military checkpoints every two blocks. Anyone found with a red cloth, a radio, or even a speaker would be considered a threat.
Dre and his people knew this was coming. It was never going to be a clean war. But they were ready.
Malik stood before a map taped to the wall of the new safehouse. Pins scattered across it marked critical supply points. Food vendors who supported them. Doctors who stitched wounds in silence. Journalists who leaked truths between news cycles.
We hit three spots today Malik said. A radio station in Victoria Island. A university in Akoka. And a mosque in Ikeja. The people are gathering and they need to hear us again
Dre nodded. But no tech this time. They will cut networks. We use bodies. We use voices. We go old school. Word of mouth. Street chants. Paint the messages on their buildings. Let them walk through our words
Kemi added
We split. Groups of six. No names. No trace. No panic. We show them we are everywhere
Dre looked around at the faces of the new team. Young. Bold. Some scared. All brave. He said
If anyone gets caught say nothing. You don't know me. You never heard of Dre. You just want bread and peace
They nodded.
The plan moved like fire. Graffiti appeared on government buildings. Poems painted on roads. Songs blasted from car stereos in traffic. In the middle of the Lagos chaos the message kept returning.
We are not a movement. We are a reckoning
That night Dre disguised himself as a delivery man. With a helmet and dusty boots he carried a fake food pack into the heart of Obayemi's media control center. Inside were USBs. Dozens of them. Hidden in rice and stew. He left the package on a table. Walked out without looking back.
By midnight the files inside spread across their internal servers. Video confessions. Evidence of election rigging. Lists of false arrests. One of the technicians leaked it live. It couldn't be undone.
Obayemi lost three key sponsors before sunrise.
At 2 a.m. Dre returned to the rooftop. Alone.
He called someone he had not spoken to in years.
His father.
The phone rang longer than expected. Then a tired voice answered.
I thought you were dead
Dre closed his eyes
I thought so too
You're the one on the radio his father said. My neighbor said your name. I didn't believe him. I couldn't believe him
Dre replied
I'm not a hero. I'm just tired of watching us drown
There was silence. Then his father said
Your mother would be proud. She hated cowards. And you
I'm not finished yet Dre said. I just wanted you to know
The line went dead. But something felt lighter in his chest.
The next day brought blood.
A raid in Oshodi. Soldiers opened fire into a crowd of protesters. Three dead. One was sixteen. Another was a street artist who had just painted Dre's face on a wall.
Dre saw the photos. He didn't flinch. He went straight to the scene with Kemi and Malik. The smell of smoke still lingered. The ground was red.
He knelt. Touched the blood.
They want us to be scared Malik said.
Then we show them we don't bleed alone Dre replied.
They held a candlelight march that evening. Thousands came. No chants. No music. Just silence. Candles flickering like stars fallen to earth. It was the most deafening protest yet.
The city felt it.
And Obayemi did too.
Inside his now half-empty estate he watched footage of the march. Something inside him cracked. Not fear. But rage. The people had chosen a street boy over decades of power. He couldn't understand it.
He ordered one last measure. A name that hadn't been spoken in years. A killer so brutal he had been exiled by his own gang.
Find Shade he said. Tell him the boy is worth ten million. Alive or in pieces
The message was sent.
And somewhere in the broken corners of the city Shade smiled.
Dre woke up the next morning to news of a missing ally. One of the original seven. A girl named Eliza. She had gone to deliver medical kits to a safehouse. Never arrived. Her phone last pinged from a warehouse in Apapa.
Dre didn't wait for backup. He rode there himself on a stolen bike. Every red light felt like a warning. The closer he got the darker the streets became.
Inside the warehouse he found her. Bound. Bruised. Alive.
And waiting beside her was Shade.
Tall. Scarred. Smiling with eyes that had no soul. He clapped slowly.
So this is the face of the fire. Not bad
Dre didn't speak. He watched. Calculated.
Shade continued
You talk big. But fire burns out. Water stays
Dre stepped forward
Then let me drown you
They fought.
Not with elegance. Not with rules. It was bone against bone. Fury against hatred. At some point Dre bled from his forehead. At another Shade grunted from a cracked rib.
But Dre was fighting for more than pride. He was fighting for everyone who had bled before him.
He broke Shade's nose. Then his jaw. Then he dragged Eliza out before the warehouse exploded behind them.
Malik and Kemi were already waiting with a stolen van.
Where's the bastard Malik asked
Buried Dre replied
They drove in silence. But in their eyes burned something new.
This wasn't just a reckoning anymore.
It was war.
And Dre was no longer running.
He was leading.